Riley jolted awake to the sound of metal scraping against stone, the screech piercing her ears like a siren. Her startled thrashing against the bed's restraints sent her tumbling to the floor.
Her body felt impossibly heavy, as if her bones had been replaced with lead. When she thrust out a hand to break her fall, she froze—the hand before her was massive and crimson. Her first panicked thought was that it belonged to someone else, but as she jerked backward and the hand moved with her, horrifying realization dawned: this alien appendage was her own.
As her eyes adjusted, she found herself in what appeared to be a hospital ward or infirmary. Grey, featureless walls stretched around her, lined with beds occupied by the sick and dying. Thick, wet coughs filled the stagnant air. To her left, a man covered in purple lesions hacked violently into his hand, black blood spattering between his fingers. When he noticed Riley staring, he hastily tried to conceal the blood-stained bandages.
The man's smile revealed teeth stained black as soot before another coughing fit seized him. His body convulsed with each hack, the bandage growing sodden and crimson, unable to contain the flow of blood. Then came one final, explosive cough that echoed through the ward, followed by absolute silence.
He didn't move again.
"Where the hell am I?" Riley whispered.
"You're awake," announced a man entering the ward, two nurses trailing behind him. "Of course the first to regain consciousness would be a Zelion."
"Zelion?" Riley echoed.
"Let's see," the man adjusted his spectacles, studying a brown notepad. "Reveen Brakter. Soot cleaner, bodyguard, and briefly a looter. Some police marks on your record. Somehow survived the final raid."
"What's happening?" Riley demanded. "Where am I? Who are you? Where are my friends?"
"Patient exhibits signs of amnesia," the doctor muttered, scribbling in his journal before tucking it away. His smile, stretched across an exhausted face that clearly hadn't known rest in days, remained fixed as he extended his hand toward Riley.
Riley eyed the outstretched hand warily before extending her own. The sight of her massive red hand once again startled her. "Why is my skin like this?"
The doctor's confusion was evident. "You're a Zelion," he stated matter-of-factly. "Red skin, enhanced musculature, considerable height—these are simply the basic traits of your race. I'd question if you'd lost your mind entirely, but considering you survived that hellish raid, perhaps we should be grateful that confusion and amnesia are your only afflictions."
Still struggling to process this new reality, Riley's gaze drifted to the stainless steel desk drawer beside her bed. Atop it lay a pendant depicting a man wrapped in white bandages, a hospital gown draped loosely around his frame as if it might slip away at any moment.
She recognized it immediately as a religious symbol, though instead of a cross, the man was posed on a rectangular bed. Some kind of faith for the ill and dying, she mused, turning the gleaming steel pendant between her fingers.
The memory of the Axis's message from when she'd donned the visor suddenly flooded back.
The message from the Axis floated through Riley's memory—something about an agreement she and her friends had supposedly signed with this mysterious entity. As she strained to recall the exact terms, a blue screen materialized before her eyes, as if summoned by her thoughts.
She yelped in surprise, drawing the doctor's attention.
"There's a screen—a blue floating screen right in front of me," she blurted, pointing at what was, to her alone, hovering in mid-air. To the doctor, she was gesturing at empty space.
Without taking his eyes off her, the doctor made several quick notes in his journal.
Riley realized how unhinged she must appear and forced herself to calm down. Keeping her face carefully neutral, she tried to study the mysterious screen as discreetly as possible.
The message from the Axis appeared before her:
"Welcome to Sveethlad, the realm of the sick. Detailed information about this world and its systems can be accessed through your Axis profile terminals at will. Pay particular attention to the information regarding arcane ash and its applications in this realm..."
The Axis message continued to unfold before her:
"For now, here is your situation: Beneath Sveethlad lies a hundred-floor dungeon, the lifeblood of this continent. Its crystals and wildlife sustain the precarious civilization above. However, the dungeon claims many adventurers' lives—their deaths serving a dual purpose, as their bodies can be burned for precious ash. See the terminal entry on Ash for its vital uses.
Unburned bodies pose a grave threat—their untethered spirits roam the dungeon as dangerous spectrals, haunting other adventurers. These spectrals can merge, developing a crude intelligence. Consult the terminal on spectrals for deeper understanding.
Currently, a massive convergence of spectrals has formed an entity known as the Undakwin. Reference the terminal for complete details, but know this: a great battle was mounted against this being, and it failed catastrophically.
The recent battle claimed countless lives, including those whose bodies you now inhabit. This creates a critical problem: more unburned souls will become trapped in the dungeon, transform into spectrals, and inevitably merge with the Undakwin. When—not if—this occurs, the entity will breach the dungeon's confines and unleash itself upon the world above. You've no doubt noticed this realm's affliction; it's already vulnerable, its population decimated by disease.
Your mission is to stop the entity before it escapes the dungeon's depths. Be warned: death in this world will be final. Should you fall before completing your mission, there will be no second chance. Between now and the entity's defeat, your survival is paramount. Consult the terminal for resources on survival and advancement in this realm."
Riley's head spun as she tried to process this information while maintaining a neutral expression for the doctor's benefit. Her new body's heart—massive and powerful in her Zelion chest—pounded with growing anxiety.
She was saved from having to respond to the Axis message by a commotion in the hallway. The doctor turned toward the sound, his face tightening with concern. Through the door, Riley could see other medical staff rushing past, their white uniforms blurring into streaks of motion.
"Stay here," the doctor ordered, already moving toward the door. "You're in no condition to—"
But Riley had caught a glimpse of what caused the commotion: another survivor being wheeled past on a gurney, their skin the telltale purple of a Malara. Hayazaki? she wondered, her borrowed body tensing with recognition.
"Wait," she called after the doctor, but he was already gone, leaving her alone with her racing thoughts and the endless stream of information flowing across her Axis terminal.
In a nearby bed, another patient began to cough—that same wet, devastating sound she'd heard earlier. The pendant on her bedside table caught the dim light, the bandaged figure seeming to watch her with blank, eternal patience.
She needed to find the others. But first, she needed to understand this body, this place, this mission they'd been given. Her massive red fingers curled into fists as she forced herself to focus, to think.
The terminal pulsed softly, offering access to more information about Sveethlad, about Zelions, about the failed raid that had led to their arrival. But where should she even begin?
A groan from the hallway drew her attention—another survivor being transported. Through the door's window, she caught a flash of familiar movement. Her friends were here, somewhere in this labyrinth of sick and dying. She just had to figure out how to reach them.
First though, she needed to learn how to stand in this borrowed body without falling. Everything else would have to wait.
Riley forced herself to stay still as another wave of medical staff rushed past her door. Each glimpse of familiar faces being wheeled by on gurneys made her massive new hands twitch with the urge to follow. But rushing out half-prepared would only draw more attention. She needed to be smart about this.
Her Axis terminal still hovered at the edge of her vision, a constant reminder of their impossible situation. With careful concentration, she found she could navigate its interface with thoughts alone. Information about her borrowed body—Reveen Brakter's body—filled the screen:
Zelion physiology had evolved in response to Sveethlad's endemic diseases. Their red skin indicated enhanced circulation, a defense mechanism against illnesses that targeted blood flow. Their size and strength compensated for the weakness these diseases typically brought. But these advantages came with costs: increased metabolic needs, difficulty navigating spaces built for smaller frames, and social stigma from those who feared their imposing presence.
A slight movement caught her attention. The doctor had left his notes on the bedside table. Riley reached for them, then stopped, startled by how far her arm now extended. Everything about this body felt excessive—too large, too strong, too obvious. The notes, when she finally managed to grasp them without crushing the paper, contained observations about her supposed amnesia and recommendations for treatment.
She was so focused on reading that she almost missed the soft footsteps approaching her bed. When she looked up, she found herself facing a small, thin woman in an aide's uniform. The woman's eyes widened slightly at Riley's sudden movement, but she held her ground.
"How are you feeling?" the aide asked, her voice professional but kind. Riley's terminal immediately displayed information about the woman: name, age, role in the hospital hierarchy.
"I'm..." Riley started, then realized she had no idea how to answer. How should Reveen Brakter feel? What would a Zelion who'd survived a catastrophic raid say in this situation? Her terminal offered no help with these questions.
The aide seemed to take her hesitation as confusion. "It's normal to feel disoriented after what you've been through. The raid... well, no one expected any survivors. Let alone eight."
Eight. The number hung in the air between them. Riley wanted to ask about the others but wasn't sure how to do so without raising suspicion. Before she could decide, another coughing fit seized the ward. The aide moved to attend to the suffering patient, leaving Riley alone with her thoughts.
She needed a plan. The Axis had given them a mission, but first they needed to regroup, to understand this world they'd been thrown into. And to do that, she needed to master this borrowed body that felt like wearing a house instead of skin.
Carefully, watching her own movements with intense focus, Riley began to shift her weight on the bed. Just learning to sit up without overbalancing would be her first victory in this strange new existence.
Behind her closed door, the hospital continued its endless rhythm of suffering and attempted healing. Somewhere in this maze of corridors, her friends were waking to their own borrowed bodies, their own challenges. She could only hope they were handling it better than she was.
The pendant on her bedside table caught the light again, its polished surface reflecting her new red features back at her. The bandaged figure's empty eyes seemed to hold a question she couldn't quite understand.
Welcome to Sveethlad, she thought grimly. Now what?